Like Falling
by Tsuru-san
Summary: Back in the Golden Age, Sanderson Mansnoozie idolized General Kozmotis Pitchiner. And perhaps he was even a bit in love with the famous general as well.


**A/N**: Written for a prompt on Dreamwidth's RotG kinkmeme.

_(Pitch/Sandman) Sandy had a crush_

_Book/Movie x-over_

_When he was a wee young thing, Sandy had a crush on General Pitchner, so when Pitchner vanished, and some jerk started spreading nightmares and using his crush/idol's name, it's just insult to injury._

_Later, Sandy finds out that Pitchner - Pitch, and it just blows his mind_

* * *

_Everyone _had heard of General Kozmotis Pitchiner. Even before he had defeated the Fearlings and Nightmare Men, Pitchiner was already famous. He was the only one brave enough to lead the constellation armies, courageous enough to fight in the face of what many had deemed to be a hopeless cause. The Lunanoff royal family's speeches may have bolstered people's spirits, but it was only thanks to the accomplishments of their chief general that they were able to speak so freely.

It was only through Pitchiner's efforts that the core systems of the galaxy and the central constellations could boast some degree of safety.

Only because of his protection that the government offices and trading houses and great halls of learning were able to maintain themselves in what was otherwise a pressing sea of darkness.

And it was in one of these universities—Somnium Et Astra Universitas, to be precise—where a certain Sanderson Mansnoozie had come to learn the power of shaping dreams...and how to fly a comet cruiser of his very own. (All the students were always excited about that part.) Perhaps some day these young dreamweavers would even be able to fly ships far and wide without fear of attack.

If that day ever did come, Sandy was sure it would be thanks to General Pitchiner.

Like many young people his age, Sanderson idolized the great general. There was hardly a soul who didn't wish to be as heroic as Pitchiner. And so when word got out that Pitchiner had been invited to give Somnium Et Astra Universitas's key note speech at the end of the year, every student down to the youngest first year turned up in the school's immaculate auditorium. And Sandy was there too. In fact, he had come the night before just to be sure that he could get a front row seat.

Some of Sanderson's fellow students teased him for his excitement—"It doesn't matter whether you stand close or in the back! General Pitchiner would never notice a short little pushover like _you_!"—but he tried to ignore them. Despite being the son of a poor librarian, Sanderson was the top student in his class, and it was no secret that some of his more high-born peers resented him for "showing them up", as they put it.

Their taunts were enough to make Sandy feel foolish, but luckily it would take more than schoolyard bullying to dampen the little man's spirits today. Soon enough Pitchiner had arrived and was being introduced. In that moment, any gloomy thoughts immediately departed Sanderson's mind.

General Pitchiner was, quite frankly, _amazing_. He was tall and slim, athletically lean. His features were too angular and his lips too thin for him to really be considered handsome, but there was something charismatic and commanding about his presence nonetheless.

And, as it turned out, he had a lovely voice. After a few words from the university's dean, Pitchiner took the stage. The students listened with rapt attention as the general called on them to be stalwart and courageous, to use their talents and studies for the greater good. He talked to them about hopes and dreams and wonder, about looking to the future but also remembering the past.

When Pitchiner's speech was finished, the dean stood at a podium left-of-center-stage and opened the floor to questions. The almost reverent silence was broken by a cacophony of noise as questions were shouted, hands waving frantically to catch the general's eyes.

Sanderson joined in the fray, standing up on his seat cushion, but he was still too short, and his voice was too soft-spoken to be heard over those of his more assertive classmates.

The questions flew like stray arrows, but Pitchiner answered them gracefully and in quick succession. They were all fairly shallow anyway—"What weapon are you best at?" "How old were you when you first fought a Fearling?" "Is it hard being a general?" "How many Fearlings have you slain?" and so on.

Eventually Pitchiner waved for silence, cleared his throat, and said, "I want to thank you all very much for such a warm reception. It has truly been an honor to visit one of the galaxy's top academies. However, before we all depart, I do believe I have time for just one more question." Hands shot up into the air, but the general ignored them. "You in the front. Yes, you. I believe you've been trying to ask something for awhile now."

Sanderson couldn't help but beam. Pitchiner was talking to him! Pitchiner _noticed _him. Sandy was so overwhelmed that he almost forgot to ask his question. But just in time the petit young man remembered it, and then Pitchiner was leaning down a little to better hear Sanderson's shy words.

"What do you do, sir, when you're afraid?"

"Hmm," Pitchiner smiled thoughtfully, tapping his chin as he considered. But around Sanderson, the other students started to whisper.

_"How rude!"_

"He shouldn't be able to ask

_**that**__."_

"Sit down! General Pitchiner isn't scared of anything!"

"Who asked a question like

_**that**__?"_

The mutterings made Sandy blush bronze and sink down in his seat. He hadn't meant any insult. And yet... Pitchiner must have heard the murmurs, but he politely didn't acknowledge them. His face never lost its small smile, and he didn't _seem_offended.

"That is a most excellent question," the general said, and suddenly the auditorium was utterly silent, hanging on his every word. "Indeed, most insightful. In my line of work, I am often afraid, and when I do fear, I think of my friends and family. Love keeps me strong even—nay, _especially_—when I am frightened.

"You see, it's better to have love than bravery," Pitchiner continued. He was talking loudly so everyone could hear him, but his eyes never wavered from Sandy. "In your most trying moments, bravery alone will often desert you. But love, real love, will make you _become_brave even when you are afraid."

* * *

The next time that Sanderson saw General Pitchiner was also the last time, though neither of them knew it then. A slightly older Sanderson had been invited to a gala affair at the Lunanoff family's summer home. A number of big names from the various constellations would be present, and although the whole thing smacked of a publicity stunt, Sandy couldn't help but continue to enjoy the limelight he had not so long ago been thrust into.

And General Pitchiner would be at the party too. That alone was enough to make Sanderson want to attend.

Pitchiner's name was being spoken in the most respectful of tones since he'd led the Golden Age armies to a total victory over the Fearlings, and Sanderson was well on his way to becoming known as the dreamweaving prodigy of the century. While he wouldn't be so presumptuous as to consider himself Pitchiner's _equal_, Sandy couldn't help but hope that his recent accomplishments at least made him worthy of a conversation or two rather than a shyly uttered question at a school presentation.

The quiet young man had graduated university with the highest honors. And soon he was to be given a shooting star of his own to pilot! Construction was delicate though and would take at least a year to complete. In the meantime, Sanderson was teaching at his alma mater. It was all, well, a dream come true to be honest.

As for the great general, Pitchiner had been made commandant of the Fearlings' prison, and he along with two other subordinate generals and a handful of staff were to oversee managing it. The original plan had been for Pitchiner and his two compatriots to switch off direct guard duties every three months so that there was always someone high-ranking at the prison while the others rested and recuperated.

But that plan was already falling apart.

Apparently no one had the stamina to endure close contact with the Fearlings. Maintenance staff changed over practically as soon as they arrived. One of the generals had cracked in under a week of guard duty and had been in a military infirmary ever since. The other was bearing up a bit better, but she too was quickly losing her nerve. Out of the three, only Pitchiner seemed able to withstand the Fearlings' company relatively unscathed, or so the rumors claimed.

But looking at his hero now, Sanderson wasn't quite so sure. The young dreamweaver caught sight of the older man nearby in the glitzy ballroom, and Pitchiner looked haggard at best—especially so against the backdrop of riches and shimmering brightness. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his movements were stiff. He'd taken the last one and a half turns of guard duty alone, and the gossip suggested he'd be called back to the prison early as well. Clearly the man was exhausted. Although they were his benefactors, Sanderson felt a flare of resentment for the Lunanoffs. Didn't they realize General Pitchiner should be resting? Certainly he should not be here, being paraded around at some aristocrats' party!

Part of Sandy had hoped to speak with Pitchiner, but now he decided against it. The last thing the general needed was yet another person prattling at him, even a quiet person like Sanderson. Instead the young man retreated to one of the hall's balconies to breathe in the fresh night air. The expensive wine he had been drinking tasted sour now. Sandy swirled it around in his glass, and tried to forget the worn look of a man weighted down by responsibility, so different from the proud soldier who had visited Sanderson's university...

"Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Sanderson Mansnoozie?" a voice asked, startling Sanderson out of his thoughts. To his surprise, it was the general.

"Ah, General Pitchiner! It's, ah, good to see you. I'm not sure if you recall..."

But Pitchiner smiled. "The young man with the smart question. How lovely to connect a name with the face."

Sanderson couldn't help but smile in return. "I'm flattered you remembered."

"You're a rather memorable person." Pitchiner's tired grin had a touch of amused humor. No doubt he was thinking about the scene at the auditorium. "You've done well for yourself, I see. Top of your class, yes? And now the youngest professor the S.E.A. university has ever hired."

"How did you...?" Sanderson was flattered beyond words now, and he was blushing a deep bronze.

Either the general didn't notice, or he was too polite to mention it. "I read about your exploits in the papers. You'll also be one of the first new comet pilots in decades. That's very brave of you."

"Not really," Sanderson said, shaking his head. "I hadn't accepted until after you defeated the Fearlings. It won't be so dangerous now that I won't have to worry about my star being attacked. Thank you."

That tired but fond smile again. "You're welcome."

They lapsed into silence, but it was the comfortable kind. The summer breeze blew softly, carrying the sweet scent of flowers, and Sanderson was just about to ask Pitchiner if he'd seen the new botanical gardens' displays when a loud feminine voice called out to them. Walking towards them, her skirts shifting elegantly, was Marquise Limette with two politicians in tow—a pair of senators if Sanderson wasn't mistaken.

"Good evening, General Pitchiner," she gushed. The three interlopers greeted Sandy as well but far less enthusiastically, and once they had acknowledged him, they just as quickly dismissed him.

"We were so hoping to find you," the marquise said to Pitchiner. "I'm afraid something's come up—"

One of the senators was next to chime in. "Some of the trade route defenses, General—"

All too quickly Sanderson found himself sidelined, easily ignored as the senators swept in, one on either side of Pitchiner.

"Excuse me!" Sandy tried to cut in, but he wasn't loud enough as the others talked over him.

Before the dreamweaver had a chance to say anything else, the two politicians and their aristocratic cohort had maneuvered the general back into the ballroom, leaving Sanderson out on the balcony alone.

The young man sighed, feeling like a student again. " 'Bye," he said quietly to the empty air.

As the evening wore on, Sanderson figured that the general's retreating back was the last he'd be seeing of the older man, at least for now. Indeed, the dreamweaver hadn't caught sight of Pitchiner since their abrupt parting, and after awhile he began to wonder if the general was still at the party at all.

But then Pitchiner found Sanderson later. (Of course he would.)

The party was winding down, and the guests were leaving—Sanderson as well—when the young man felt a gloved hand alight on his shoulder. He turned, golden brows rising in surprise to see the general just behind him.

"Good evening, again, Mr. Mansnoozie," Pitchiner greeted him. "I'm glad I ran into you. Again. And...I wanted to apologize for my rudeness earlier."

"It's always good to see you as well, sir, and please don't be bothered about earlier," Sandy replied, daring to pat the general's arm in a think-nothing-of-it fashion. How terribly bold of him, but Sanderson withdrew his hand after barely a touch, and Pitchiner didn't appear bothered.

"Still," he protested politely, "I could've handled the interlopers better."

"Oh, but some foes are too much even for a famed general," Sanderson teased. "And that lot is a regular bunch of harpies, especially in those flashy ensembles!" The dreamweaver spoke hoping to put Pitchiner at ease; however, once the words left his lips, Sandy wasn't so sure if he'd chosen well. Would the general think him tacky...?

But Pitchiner laughed instead, a deep resonant sound. He laughed a little breathlessly, like he was surprised at himself. He laughed like a man who didn't laugh often. "Harpies, indeed." He tilted his head thoughtfully, lips quirked up in a little smirk but with a certain amount of admiration. "I can't help but think you only seem soft-spoken, Mr. Mansnoozie. A pity I wasn't able to talk with you for longer before I was snatched up by the vultures."

"It was a pleasure to speak with you at all," Sanderson quickly ploughed ahead. "Really." He wanted to turn the conversation away from the other guests lest any dignitaries were in earshot and might be insulted.

"Likewise," Pitchiner replied, and his smile was quite genial, such that it _almost_ chased away the tired, worn-out look on his face. "And now I believe I've waylaid you long enough. Let's meet again another time, alright? Goodnight, Mr. Mansnoozie." So saying, the general proffered his hand, and Sanderson gladly shook it.

"Another time, yes. Goodnight, General Pitchiner."

Sandy stood silently as Pitchiner left, making his way through the handful of other guests still milling about in the background. The dreamweaver had eyes only for the general though, and he watched the older man until Pitchiner was lost from sight, swallowed up by the shadows.

Later that night when he was back in his little home near the university, Sanderson replayed that final conversation over again in his mind. He dreamed about it too, about Pitchiner's graceful posture and military bearing, about the crisp lines of his uniform and the strong angle of his jaw. (Sanderson's imaginings kindly left out the tired set of the general's mouth or the shadows in his eyes.)

Sanderson dreamed that the handshake had ended differently, that Pitchiner had brought the dreamweaver's hand to his lips and feathered a soft kiss against plump fingers. And even though Sandy had heard that Pitchiner had a daughter—which would mean that the man had probably been married at one point—even knowing that, the newly-minted dreamweaver couldn't help but imagine how he and the general might have parted differently.

Of course, nothing like that would ever happen, but that was alright. The general's smile before he left had made Sanderson's heart flutter all the same. And "another time"! Pitchiner had practically offered Sandy an invitation.

But in the end there never was "another time".

* * *

The tragic news came a scant few weeks before Sanderson's shooting star was to be completed...

The Fearlings had escaped from their prison, leaving all the personnel dead or raving mad. The compound had been partly burned down in the nightmarish creatures' departure, and it was unlikely that all the bodies would ever be found. Amidst the ashes, there might not have been anything left to find.

General Pitchiner was among those missing.

The truth was like a blow to the heart, and all the people of the constellations grieved for their hero's loss, Sanderson especially. But with grief also came change and not for the better.

The Golden Age armies steadily began to ramp back up, preparing for the inevitable confrontations. Traders and merchants withdrew from the outer systems, and slowly the dreamweavers who had only recently enjoyed the taste of flying free wherever they pleased began to ground themselves, once again too afraid to pilot their shooting stars.

Ashamed, Sandy quietly stopped construction on his own ship. He remembered how Pitchiner had complimented him for daring to become a pilot. What would the general think if he saw him now? Sanderson was sure the older man would be disappointed, but the young dreamweaver couldn't help himself. He'd heard stories about how the Fearlings killed star pilots—or did worse if they caught one alive. Even if it meant he was a coward, Sanderson would rather be teaching in the central constellations where it was safe.

Everywhere people waited with bated breath for some word, any word, of the Fearlings. There had been no sign of them since their escape, and the not-knowing left everyone in a terrible state of paralysis and fear. They were at war again and this time with no hero to lead them. However, the awful anticipation was short-lived and quickly gave way to horror as the _attacks_began.

Star cruisers scuttled.

An outer moon blown to so much rubble.

A frontier constellation razed to barrenness.

The destruction moved steadily inward toward the core systems, and the full force of the Golden Age armies couldn't seem to repel it. Like his fellow citizens, Sanderson didn't understand how this could be happening _so fast_. The Fearlings and Nightmare Men had been beaten down and imprisoned. Admittedly they had not been jailed for long—barely three years—but surely that would have affected them somehow? Waned their strength? But the exact opposite seemed true! The Fearlings had _never_been so organized, never been so efficient at causing destruction on this large a scale.

That's when the disturbing rumors started. The Fearlings had a _leader_.

He was calling himself Pitch Black.

Pitch.

_Pitch_iner.

It was too similar to be a coincidence. Sanderson seethed with outrage when he heard. How _dare_ one of those _monsters_wear even a facsimile of his hero's name. Undoubtedly the Fearlings were mocking the noble general they had slain.

Sanderson rehired his engineers the next day. His star was to be completed, and he _would_fly it. His fellow professors and many others cautioned him against it, that such actions were too perilous especially now, but this time Sanderson didn't care.

He loved his family and friends, and he wanted to protect them. Sanderson loved the citizens of the galaxy who deserved to have sweet dreams. Even a small boyish part of him truly loved the general that he'd hardly known. Sanderson knew what he had to do. (He knew what General Pitchiner would tell him to do.)

If all the other dreamweavers were grounded, people needed at least one left to give them hope.

Sanderson chose to be brave.

* * *

The next year proved to be one of the loneliest for Sanderson. And one of the most dangerous.

He flew his shooting star in the core systems, bolstering morale amongst the constellations. He flew to the far reaches of the galaxy, dodging Fearling raiding parties and bringing dreams to the frontier planets. Sanderson flew where wishes were being made and where dreams were needed—which, in these awful times, was everywhere—but his efforts were only just a small weight on a wildly tipping scale. Wishes and dreams were not enough to hold back the tide of fear infiltrating through the galaxy, and what faith the people had was steadily stolen away...

Constellations falling one after another.

The Lunanoff family in hiding; no one knew where.

The Pooka being wiped out, driven to extinction in one epic bloody battle.

The last of the Golden Age Army surrendering. Those poor souls...

All dark, dark things.

And eventually _Sanderson_ was one of only a few bright spots in a universe turned black. People spoke of him with hope even as Pitch hunted him down, but still Sanderson flew on. He used every trick he'd picked up to stay one step ahead of the Fearlings, and so the young dreamweaver—the last dreamweaver—flew across the galaxy and back, dreaming sad and lonely in his ship. Not nightmares but just bittersweet dreams. Sanderson sent good dreams to the celestial bodies he sailed over while keeping his melancholy dreams to himself. He dreamed a lot of General Pitchiner: that he and the older man could've been friends (lovers?), that Pitchiner was alive out there _somewhere_, that they could fight the Fearlings together, that things had been different...

In his worst days, Sanderson wondered what he was even fighting for. There was no army left to challenge Pitch, and Sanderson himself was but a thorn in the other man's side. It was partly luck that had kept the star pilot safe so far, but then one day his luck ran out. Sanderson was in a remote patch of the universe near a planet called 'Earth' when it happened.

He had just been swinging around the dark side of Earth and planning to head toward Mars. But then without warning Pitch's ship, the _Nightmare Galleon_, rose up from behind a spray of stars. The bowsprit jutted out like a spear, and the ship's sails were spread at full canvas, ebony as the heart of a black hole. The _Galleon_was impossibly huge—once it had been a military gunship before Pitch had taken it. Now there was little left of the corrupted ship to show that it had ever been anything other than a vessel of mayhem.

Sandy balked at the tremendous sight of the thing, and he yanked on his steering controls roughly, trying to turn his star around as quickly as he could. If he was fast enough, then maybe he might get away, maybe they hadn't seen him—

But of course they had.

How horrifying that such a ponderously large spacecraft could move so _quickly_. The golden dreamweaver would not be able to outrun the _Nightmare Galleon_, but Sanderson was determined to try—he would never give up, and he most definitely would not go down without a fight. He flew his star with a skill born of natural talent as much as experience, and the comet responded readily to his commands though alas escape was not to be. Despite all of Sanderson's efforts, his shooting star was no match for a military grade ship, and it was not long before the distance between the two vessels began to dwindle.

The first harpoon impaled the starship's side with a dull _thunk_, metal screeching as the gleaming hull was breached. The comet swung sharply to the side as it was abruptly thrown off course.

Now that Sandy was in range, more missiles launched from the _Galleon_, some hitting home while others went wide of the mark. One stray grappling hook struck the starship's console, but failing to gain purchase, it swung free and whipped back, landing a glancing blow across Sandy's shoulder in the process. The barbed edges of the hook had torn deep, and even though the weapon had missed a vital blow, bronze-hued blood still spilled in ribbons from the wound.

Gasping weakly, he clutched his torn robe and fell back against his chair. The starship shuddered as it was slowly dragged toward the _Nightmare Galleon_. Sandy was only barely aware of the star's jerky movements as he lay half-fainted. However, something at last did rouse him from his swoon.

Laughter.

It was such an insidious and _cold_ sound that it dragged Sandy from the brink of unconsciousness. Fear gripped him in its greedy little fingers. He tried to call out—for help? for mercy?—it mattered not though because when the young dreamweaver tried to speak, no sound came out. He was so frightened that he couldn't speak.

And then Sanderson spotted him: Pitch Black. It took a second for the smaller man to process what he was seeing, but then the similarities slotted into place, and golden lips parted in a stricken 'O'. This man with his angular face and tall stature and his thin lips and lean hands, and even now he was standing at parade rest on the _Galleon_'s deck, hands tucked primly behind him.

Kozmotis Pitchiner. (No.)

Sanderson was so terrified in that moment. Pitchiner, the general, how could he have possibly ended up like _this_? It was worse than dying. Tears welled up in Sanderson's eyes, and his lips noiselessly formed the other man's name.

Slowly the _Nightmare Galleon_ reeled in its prey, and Sanderson literally shook with fear. The Fearlings on deck could feel it, and their laughter took on a frenzied almost hysterical edge. Pitch's cruel smile widened, hints of madness dancing in his eyes, and this was _not _the general.

Trembling, Sandy whispered the older man's name, but if the former soldier recognized the dreamweaver, he gave no sign, and in that instant, Sandy was certain that he would die. Pitchiner wouldn't do something so horrible, but this creature, this, this _Pitch Black_ would. If Sanderson was to be saved, he would have to save himself. In that moment, the terror and sorrow were overpowered by a desperate desire to live, and Sanderson struggled to sit up. Hands slippery with his own blood, he clasped the star's steering handles. The engine revved as Sanderson attempted to take evasive action.

He wasn't going to let it end like this! As Sandy maneuvered and weaved with such daring, the starship's view port was alternately filled with a dizzying slurry of stars or the _Nightmare Galleon _and Pitch's face scowling as he shouted orders. Metal shrieked in protest as the harpoons shredded the comet's sides, but Sanderson refused to give up. Not now, not like this...

And then the ropes snapped, and Sandy was falling, and he had no more time for fear as he fought desperately for control of his ship.

However, the little comet cruiser had given its last just to break free, and no matter what he did, Sanderson was unable to regain altitude. Down, down, he spiraled, and it was a cold comfort that the _Nightmare Galleon _broke off pursuit as Sanderson breached the Earth's atmosphere. Now he was going down alone, the dusty golden tail of his comet streaking through the sky like a hundred thousand mini stars. And Sandy despaired, certain that he would never survive this.

(And even if he did, would he ever survive _this_? Pitchiner, his hero, nononono...)

But as Sandy's comet plummeted toward Earth, suddenly something extraordinary happened: people were wishing. They saw Sanderson's shooting star and were awed by its beauty. It didn't even matter what they were wishing for—their wishes were full of _hope_.

Their hope pushed back some of Sanderson's despair, and he knew what he had to do. Grasping tight to the ship's controls, Sanderson twisted with all his might. Even if he wouldn't make it through this, he had to be sure that his ship didn't hurt anyone when it landed. Miraculously the comet yielded, turning sharply. With his adjusted trajectory, Sanderson soared over villages and towns and out and out until all he could see was ocean.

Then the steering seized, and Sanderson relinquished his grip, slumping back into his pilot's seat. He was badly injured and exhausted, and this time he knew he wouldn't be able to stave off unconsciousness. Not that it was likely to matter soon. But even knowing this landing might be the end of him, Sanderson was relieved at least that he could die streaking through the skies, not executed as a prisoner aboard that hellish ship...

Then he heard one more wish, a child's wish, a kind wish. Unlike the others, it was not a wish for the child's own benefit but for Sanderson's.

_I wish you well._

And so Sanderson closed his eyes and gave in to the creeping dark. He dreamed of his academy and his friends. He dreamed of Pitchiner, resplendent in his uniform. He dreamed of flying among the stars. He dreamed of waking up later, of surviving to see another day.

Sanderson dreamed that all would be well.

_-end-_


End file.
